Seven Deadly Sins
by Seraephina
Summary: Pride. Envy. Lust. Avarice. Sloth. Gluttony. Wrath. Seven sins. Seven people. Seven simple desires...And zero chance for redemption.
1. Pride

**Yay! New fic idea!**

**I've always loved the Seven Deadly Sins: Pride, Envy, Lust, Avarice, Sloth, Gluttony, and Wrath. They're fabulous. And so of course, I had to make a fic out of them. And here we are, at the first chapter of a seven-part fic! Yay!**

**I have to warn you. These will be dark. Maybe a little weird. You will probably think I'm insane or on drugs or something when you read them. I'm totally not, but…whatever…**

**I really hope I don't lose you in the complexity of this. And I also really hope you like it! **

**Also, I'm going to try to keep my Author's Notes to only the beginning of the fic, so that they don't interrupt the flow of the story too much. Because these are so **_**incredibly**_** dark—and I have to keep a positive outlook or I'm going to get depressed. :D So I just won't say anything about how sucky I think these are.**

**Anyway, this first chapter took me approximately an hour to write. I had no idea what I was going to write in the first place, and no clear idea of what would happen, so hopefully this isn't too scattered.**

**Anyway! Here is the first chapter. Pride. Starring Blackfire. **

**Enjoy it, darlings! :) Don't get too depressed, because this probably the darkest one and they will hopefully get happier as they go on.**

**EDIT: Veronica kindly pointed out that there is actually no deadly sin called 'vanity', and that it is actually 'pride'. Well...thanks! My mistake. :) I changed this chapter a little to fit that, as well as changing the title/summary ect. **

--

When I look in the mirror now, I feel like laughing.

Sometimes I feel like crying, too, or screaming, or smashing my fists against the glass and letting the shards rip into my skin—because sometimes I just want to bleed away my pain. Sometimes I even feel like admiring myself, so I pose in front of the mirror, letting my eyes run over the hard-won curves and the lies that make up my entire appearance, and then I smile. Sometimes I just stand there blankly. Numbly. And I feel like dying.

But most of the time I want to laugh.

It isn't a pleasant laughter. It's laughter that boils in my stomach, claws its way out of my throat and somehow spews out of my mouth. It's hysterical. It's desperate. It's chest-ripping, breath-stealing, this-isn't-funny laughter.

And whenever I laugh like that, I wish I was crying instead.

My reflection always looks back at me haughtily. I see high cheekbones, and full lips, and big, dark eyes. I see a tight, taut stomach and long legs. I see a luscious wave of black hair and the metal armor that hugs my every curve. I see a thousand things that people admire, appreciate, desire.

I see a thousand lies.

The cheekbones and lips were a gift from my mother, a beauty who passed her good looks down to her daughters. I enhanced them with illegal drugs. My face melted like putty. I molded it like wax.

The huge violet eyes are a result from surgery on a distant planet. Violet, because it is the color of royalty. I barely remember the long-lost green. Green, because it is the color of humility, and I care nothing for being humble.

The sleek body is nothing more than a result of low prison rations and constant fights for my life. At least, that's what I tell people. I used to starve myself. I still do, sometimes. And after starving myself for a while, I eat and eat and eat, anything and everything that torments me when I'm hungry, until I throw it all up: until I've purged myself of everything that makes me weak.

And my long, strikingly black hair? I use dye. It's expensive, and dangerous, and rare—it comes from the essence of darkness and the heartstrings of malevolence. It takes years to make. It takes lives to create. I don't care. It barely manages to conquer the red underneath.

The armor hides the scars of a thousand beatings, of a thousand days in prison, of a thousand crimes and robberies. A thousand ways to rebel, to fight against my predetermined destiny, to become someone I hate.

A thousand lies—a thousand secrets—make up my enticing exterior.

It's sick, isn't it? I spent my entire life creating this—this _thing._ This person that I am supposed to be. I changed myself. I hid my Tamaranian roots.

I created Blackfire.

Blackfire, the warrior. Blackfire, the beauty. Blackfire, the rebel, the defiant one, the empress and criminal and seductress, all in one.

Since the day I created her, I have been constantly analyzed, constantly labeled, constantly broken down into methodical pieces that are dissected, evaluated, and reconstructed. I have been constantly branded as all of these different people, all of these different things.

I am none of them.

And yet my false exterior, my charade of rebellion, my façade of perfection_…_shows me to be all of them.

Blackfire seduces men and leaves them for others. Blackfire breaks laws, not because she needs to, but because she wants to. Blackfire manipulates everyone who tries to care about her. Blackfire is strong. Blackfire is brave. Blackfire is gorgeous, stunning, dazzling in her beauty. Blackfire is wild, free, untamed, feral.

Blackfire is not real.

It's sick. But it's not the sickest part.

I hate this…Blackfire. I hate everything she stands for, everything she's done, everything she's destroyed. Everything she is.

And yet I want to be her. So, so much.

I see how people look at me—look at _Blackfire_. They see dark purple eyes and smoky black hair. They see long, sleek legs and slender muscles. They see power, and beauty, and allure, and glamour. They see everything I want them to, everything I've worked so hard to create.

They want me.

And I want their attention.

I love how they look at Blackfire. I see the dark flash of envy in their eyes, or the fevered gleam of lust. They want this girl, this girl who can do what she wants. They want this girl, who is fantastic and enchanting and free. They want what she has, want what she is, want what she stands for. They. Want. Her.

I take it all in, and I love it. Because while they want Blackfire, they really want me.

Blackfire is not me, and I know in the place where my heart used to be that I will never be anything like her. Blackfire is her own person. She doesn't need anyone or anything to complete her, because in her mind, she is complete. She doesn't need people's attention to survive. She doesn't watch them carefully for that tell-tale glimmer of desire; she doesn't do everything in her power to fight for the attention of others.

Blackfire has committed every crime underneath the sun, broken every law possible, sinned every way she could...except for one, single way.

Blackfire may be everything, but Blackfire is not proud.

I am proud.

It goes beyond just _pride,_ though. It is beyond a simple vanity. It fuels my existence. Without the longing stares and awed rapture, I am nothing.

I am not Blackfire, because I am not complete. I will never be Blackfire, because I will never be satisfied.

Blackfire belongs to no one but herself. And no matter how hard I try to be her, no matter how hard I try to suppress my pride, I belong to her. And without her, there is nothing but pride left in me.

So I stand in front of the mirror. I look at Blackfire, the person everyone knows and envies. It is not who I am. But it is who I have to be.

Because without this curse, without this yearning to be bigger and better and badder than everyone else…I am _truly_ nothing. And it is better to be someone than no one at all.

Now I'm looking in the mirror, and I can't help it: the sick laughter bubbles up in me, and it tears its way from my throat. I laugh and laugh and laugh at the twisted wreckage of my life. I can't help it. I laugh even as I run out of breath and shake from pure, starvation-ridden exhaustion.

I keep laughing as desperation squeezes my heart and I shudder in my bitter tears.

Even though it isn't funny. At all.

--

**Next: Lust  
**


	2. Lust

**Okay, I lied. Envy is still coming soon. Instead I wrote Lust.**

**I really really wanted to get Lust out of the way, because even the word makes me blush, and I SO didn't want it hanging over my head as I was writing this. So now it's done. Yay! :)**

**I really didn't want this to be inappropriate, because…ick! I'm thirteen, dudes, and even though I'm probably capable of writing some random sex scene, I SO don't want to. :D I also wondered for SO LONG (!!) on how to fit Starfire to Lust, and I think I came up with something believable. But if it's not…oh well. I only really got rid of my writer's block as I was writing the end.**

**By the way, new poll! This one is basically your opinion on which member of Titans West has the most deadly cooking skills. D:**

**So…enjoy, my duckies! (mad cackling) **

**Ahem…I think Mad Mod kinda got to me there…:D**

**Here is Lust! Starring Starfire. **

**--**

I am thirsty. I am so very thirsty.

One would suppose that water would slake my thirst. One would suppose that my thirst is caused by mere lack of moisture, and that it is as easily satiated as dehydration.

It is not dehydration. It is far, far worse.

My thirst is for the touch that sends shivers down a young girl's spine, or the soft kiss that causes a flush to spread over her cheeks. My thirst is for twined hands and desire-bright eyes and the sweet nothings that sound so perfect, so lovely, as they are whispered into your ear.

My thirst is never sated, never satisfied, and certainly never quenched. It is a thirst that will plague me for the rest of my life—and who knows? Perhaps this thirst is so intense that it will scourge me forever, even when my corpse is burned and my ashes float evermore in space.

I know why I am thirsty. I know how I came to be thirsty.

And I know that I will never be sated.

--

I was young when I met my first love. On Tamaran, age is meaningless, of course. Our life spans stretch through the epochs. I mention my age only because years are no clue to maturity.

I was a feather-brained child. Sweet. Innocent. I truly believed that if I obeyed my parents and ate my vegetables and spoke only the truth, my life would be full and happy.

My innocence evaporated so very quickly.

He was young, too, but not nearly so young as I. He had sparkling green eyes, as all Tamaranians do. But his were deeper. Clearer. They smoldered when he was angered and glowed when he was joyous. There were like miniature comets, always flushed with radiance. I was captivated.

He wooed me—no, he didn't woo me. He _seduced_ me. He used his strong arms and crooked smile and fiery eyes to draw me away from everything. I neglected my studies, my family, my meals, myself…He taught me everything I had never known. How to touch someone…how to kiss them, carefully, and then not so carefully at all…how to whisper in their ear, whisper so wonderfully that their breath is stolen away. He taught me about love and lust and passion and intimacy.

He was the sun in my life, I will admit. I now know that I was nothing but an asteroid: forever circling him in an unbreakable, magnetic pull, but never close. Never important. But I believed that I was his sun, too.

He was deceiving me. He mimicked my love, copied my zeal perfectly. We were in a mirror game, although I knew it not—when I look back now, I realize he was too perfect, too lovely, too spectacular in all of his being. He was a fraud.

I wasn't unintelligent as a child. But we are all fools in love.

I believe it was his eyes that truly fooled me.

There were these times, when I looked deep into his eyes, particularly after he kissed me, when we were both panting and unsteady. If I stared straight down into the emerald depths…past the glaze of desire…past the shimmer of thirst…past all the yearning for me, for my body, for my heart…I thought I could see something deeper. Something stronger.

I felt as if there was a bond between us, an invisible one, but one so powerful, so deep, so beautiful, that it would last beyond our final breaths. I felt as if that bond would not be broken by absence, or time, or distance, or neglect. I felt as if my heart was his and his heart was mine, and we were both so truly and completely in love that nothing could ever, ever break us.

I was so sure, so absolutely certain that I was right.

I was so completely wrong.

He left me, of course. It was only a matter of weeks, perhaps a month, before a new woman sashayed across his mind. He left me for her: left me for her winning smile and feather-duster eyelashes and charming way of speaking. I saw them dancing together, one night. I saw him whisper sweet nothings into her ear. I saw the way he looked at her, exactly how I'd looked at him. I saw her bat those lovely eyelashes, saw him give her that wonderful smile. And then I saw them kiss, so sweetly, so tenderly…

I let them dance the night away. I let them dance across my heart.

My sun was extinguished. I was left to wander alone in the coldness of space.

I was broken, of course. I did not eat or sleep. I barely moved for my apathy—I curled into corners for days on end and let the waves of pain reach for me, pull me close, surround me with icy waves of numbness…and soon they sucked me under with the siren calls of their seductive voices. I submerged. I did not resurface.

And yet I did.

It took another man to lead me away from my despair. His voice was divine: like drowning in a vat of honey. I did not know _why_ I was drowning, when I listened to his voice, or what I was doing a vat of honey at all. I only knew that it was the sweetest pain I could hope for, and I lapped it up as if it truly were the sweet golden nectar itself.

He was charming, and passionate, and brooding, and deep. I forgot about my first love. I threw myself fully and completely into this new man, this man who promised me relief from the numbness inside of me. I gave him everything: my heart, my mind, my body, my soul. I was even more in love with him than the first man—and so I gave him more. More time, more thought, more love. I was passionate as well: our fervor stole my thoughts away.

I gave him everything, in my naivety. And it only meant that there was more of me to break.

He left after half a year. He said he needed to find himself—he said he was trapped with me. He said I suffocated him, I ensnared him, I deceived him into contentment. He said he needed to be free. He said could not be free if he was lashed to my bidding. His honey-sweet voice made the harsh words all the more devastating.

I had six months of giving him more than I had; six months of touching him, needing him, loving him; six months of drinking deeply from the wine of passion. And then, in one shattering instant…he was gone. The cup was torn from my wine-stained lips. The bitter traces left on my mouth were all I had left of love.

Looking back now, I realize their proclaimed love was fake. Every shred of devotion those two men bestowed upon me was nothing but a charade, and although they did not know it, their illusions broke me beyond repair. But at the time, it seemed so, so real. I have always been susceptible to enchantments. I have always been one to believe the charade. And I have always been the one who cries when the illusion fades away.

My two illusions of love were gone.

I cannot convey with words my despair. In Earth years, I was fourteen years old.

It was far from the term you hear so often: heartbroken. No, my heart shattered. There is no glue for such a wound. I longed for a coma, one so all-consuming that I would never wake, and would eventually be killed in my sleep. I longed in vain. I stayed conscious all through the first day he was gone…and the next…and the next…and the next…

I fear that my mind was lost after that day.

At first I removed myself from the world. I did not allow myself to cry. I knew that if I cried that first tear, they would never stop—they would never cease until the worlds were flooded with them. I did not eat or sleep for weeks. I faded away to nothing. I clung to the ghost of his memory as if remembering his sumptuous voice would bring him back. I became numb to emotion.

It changed, one day. I was shaken from my numbness. I felt afraid.

I was afraid that I would never love again. I was afraid that I was broken. I was afraid that I would never be whole again. I was afraid for a long time—so long! One would suppose that after a year or two, the feeling would fade, but it did not. Relentless horror was my only company for a long, long time, and its company did nothing but starve me of the love I craved.

Eventually I found a way to sate my hunger.

In the beginning, I shied from the attention I received from the male inhabitants of Tamaran. I was afraid to get close again. I was afraid to be broken. I let them kiss me, only slowly, only softly. And the warmth of their affection thawed me, just a little.

During this time, I was fragile in the most extreme way possible. I was so malnourished that my father unintentionally snapped my arm in half while embracing me.

But soon the emotions that shuddered through me as I was kissed became…familiar. I grew used to them. They became nothing to me. And I still longed for the warmth of someone's touch, perhaps more than ever.

And so I dared myself to venture further—to move a little faster, to kiss a little deeper, to touch very lightly. The warmth came to me again. And then, predictably, it faded. I pushed myself further, doing the things that I used to with the men I truly loved—and soon, doing even more. My emaciated figure was of great use to me. I suppose males are attracted to malnutrition.

In due course, I held the throne over nearly every male on the planet. They wanted me, I wanted them…

They lusted after my body.

I lusted after their lust.

I was addicted to the warmth that overcame me and the hope that soared through me when I realized I could still feel. Their lust…my drug…it fell easily into place. Too easily. I was too-easily fixated with this drug of mine. It too-easily took over my life.

--

Now I live on Earth, with four people who I have come to know and trust, even in my fragile state.

Oh, I eventually got around to nourishing myself. I eventually regained my strength. I eventually learned to mask my inherent lust, and to portray someone else instead. I modeled my blissful behavior after my grandmother, the happiest woman I have ever known.

All of this is a charade of sorts. Beneath every smile, beneath every laugh, there is the longing for a touch. Beneath everything I appear to be is a well-cloaked desire. I have never shown it to anyone.

On Earth, my thirst is limited, but not by my choosing. There are three males in the Tower. I lust after only one, because he is the only one to respond to my suggestions of romance.

Robin is a gentleman. A careful, chaste gentleman. He is honorable and kind of protective and strong.

If I was not so completely and utterly broken, I would love him. I _wish_ I could love him. I wish my heart was whole so I could shower him with the adoration he deserves. I wish I was not addicted to the feeling of warmth that has taken over my life. I wish I had never met those two men, those men who demolished my young soul and damaged me beyond repair. I wish I was able to heal myself.

I know the harm is irreversible.

And so I cannot give Robin the love he deserves. Instead, I lust only after his body, not his heart. I desire only his touch, not his thoughts. I want warmth. Not a boyfriend.

And even if I receive Robin's body, even if I obtain the warmth I crave, the thirst will still be there—undying…insatiable…And he will be left broken, just as I was. Fate has never cast a crueler illusion.

More than anything, I wish Robin could sate my thirst.

But I know he never, ever will.

--

**Next: Avarice**


	3. Greed

**I had trouble with this one.**

**--**

There are so many things that I want from this world.

I want an unbroken night's sleep. I want three square meals a day. I want a new suit, a new power source and a new place to crash after robberies. I want fame. I want to be recognized, feared, sought after, admired.

But really, more than anything else, more than anything that torments my days and interrupts my sleep, I want possessions.

Fine wine. Good furniture. Pleasurable company. Expensive clothes.

Prices rise and fall. Inflation comes and goes. Stocks crash, then rise, only to crash again. But people will always have _things._

They collect them. Amass them. Covet them. Because they are valuable. Because they are beautiful. Because there aren't enough of them. Because there never will be.

And I steal them for the same reasons.

I want more and more and more of everything I own. I want even more of everything I _don't _own. No matter how many things I have, no matter how much they are worth, no matter how long it took to amass them…it will never be enough. _I _will never have enough. Not enough time, not enough money, not enough sleep, not enough wealth.

I will always…want…more.

--

I'm so used to this greed that I barely notice it anymore. It's become natural. A part of me, almost.

When I see a nice necklace in the front of a store, I get this feeling, this strange, horrible sensation. I've felt it so many times. It's familiar. It's expected.

But it never stops hurting.

This feeling…it's like there's a hole in my chest, where the heart should be, and everything is draining out of my body—blood, organs, soul, you name it. I feel empty.

And then I lay eyes on the necklace again, and it's the most gorgeous thing in the whole world. It's alluring. Enchanting. Enthralling. I have to have it. It's the only thing that will staunch the wound. It's the only thing that will fill the emptiness.

Meanwhile, the hole is getting worse—causing actual, physical pain. I get this throbbing in my chest, even though it feels like it's empty. I _need_ this necklace. If I don't have this necklace, the pain will consume me. Sometimes I fall to my knees, just writhing in agony. Sometimes I manage to stand up and take it like a man. I try to resist. I try to look away, focus on something else. But every single time, it gets so bad I can barely stand it—

And then the next thing I know, I've broken into the store, and I'm snatching at the necklace, and suddenly the pain is gone like it never existed and the most important thing in the world is that bit of gold clutched in my hand.

And then I see a really nice tux, and the cycle starts all over again.

_What is it? _you ask. _What causes this pain?_

It's sheer, unadulterated greed.

I wonder, sometimes, if it's my drug. If you take a junkie, and stick them in rehab for a while, eventually they'll get better, right? At least for a time. Then they get out, and they try to go about their normal life. Trying to avoid the drug. Trying to not think about it. If they don't think about it, they won't want it.

I can try that all I want. I can tell myself, "X, this is it. The last time you're going to steal something. That's it. The last time. You're going straight and narrow now, my boy!"

I can tell that to myself until I'm blue in the face.

I can't avoid _my _drug. Material possessions are everywhere. You're addicted to cocaine? Fine. Stay away from clubs. You're addicted to ecstasy? Okay, cool. Stay away from concerts.

You're addicted to other people's possessions? Try barricading yourself in a cage, buddy.

I know it sounds like I'm cool with this. Like I don't give a crap that I can't control myself around shopping centers. Like I'm fine with the fact that every time I see something I want, I feel like my freaking chest is going to spontaneously combust. Like I'm pretty much blasé when I realize that as soon as the pain overwhelms me, my body goes on cruise control and the next time I'm back in the driver's seat, I'm on a rooftop twenty miles away and holding some valuable material object.

I'm not cool with this.

I'm not cool with this at all.

It makes me _sick_ inside. When I can't control myself. When I find myself clutching another priceless vase. I feel sick before I get it, and then I feel a different kind of sick afterwards.

That's why I laugh when Boy Blunder suggests for me to just "try walking on the light side". I would. I really, really would. I would give up the suit, the mask, the infamy…I would give it all up in a heartbeat. I'm tired of working hard, so hard, just to be hated. I'm tired of planning, strategizing, manipulating everything around me, just to go through with something that will cause other people pain. If I had the choice, I would walk over to the Titans right now and say, "I give up. Let me join you. Let me be a hero."

I can't.

I can't control this greed.

I've tried. I've tried _so hard_. I've tried to ride the pain out so many times. I keep thinking, "One more second. One more second, and it will fade. One more freaking second."

One second can come and go. The pain doesn't stop until I've stolen what I covet.

And it never, ever will.

--

And now as I look down at the hands that have taken so much, that take and take and take and somehow take even more, I notice them trembling.

Just a little.

Like a leaf in the wind.

Are they shaking from exhaustion? Disgust? Shame?

I don't know. All I know is that no matter how tired, no matter how sick, no matter how ashamed, no matter how pained, I will always take more. And more. And more. And never be satisfied.

Greed is shaking and crying in a pool of your own vomit, screaming in agony from the cramping pains in your stomach, trembling from illness-induced exhaustion, but still coveting the alcohol that made you puke. Greed is having so much—so many things, so much wealth—but being terrified of running out, and amassing more and more until you're crushed beneath the weight of it all, and yet still needing even more. Greed is wanting and wanting and wanting, craving something that will destroy you from the inside out, yearning for it even when it makes you sick.

Greed is what I am, who I am, and all I will ever be.

--

**Next: Envy**


End file.
